


What He Can Do

by Defcon



Series: Life Flows On [1]
Category: DC's Legends of Tomorrow (TV), The Flash (TV 2014)
Genre: Character Death Mentioned, Comfort Sex, FlashWave, M/M, Main pairing is Flashwave, Mentions of Coldflash, Mick POV, References to past Coldwave, Size Difference, Spoilers for Flash 2x23, Spoilers for Legends of Tomorrow 1x15, coldflash - Freeform, coldwave
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-25
Updated: 2016-06-25
Packaged: 2018-07-18 02:34:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,465
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7296052
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Defcon/pseuds/Defcon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After the Waverider crew returns to Central City, Mick and Barry find some comfort in one another.</p>
            </blockquote>





	What He Can Do

**Author's Note:**

> Technically this is canon-compliant for Legends, but it takes place in a slightly divergent Flash timeline where Barry was shocked to learn that the man in the iron mask was the Henry Allen of another Earth, but instead of hitting the reset button he realized it was part of what the Speed Force was trying to teach him about destiny, connectedness and his responsibilities as the Flash. So he's sad, but trying to accept the state of things.

Mick is hunched over the bar at Saints & Sinners, almost finished with a plate of bangers ’n’ mash (the potatoes are lumpy and the gravy is thick as mud with half the flavor) when he feels the pinpricks on the back of his neck that mean he’s being watched.

He doesn't set his fork down, and he keeps looking straight ahead, chewing. Could be Lisa, trying again to get something out of him. Answers. Closure. 

All their conversations since he’d gotten back have turned into shouting matches. She’s still raw over the fact that not only had her brother been traveling through time without her, but that he’d died, and there was no body. She had to trust Mick’s word that Lenny’d blown himself up in a land beyond time. Christ.

Mick’s caught up in guilt and remorse, but Lisa’s probing turns those feelings into anger, makes him lash out at her -- his guy’s baby sister, who he’d picked up from skating practices, and taught how to set fires that looked like accidents, and threatened to kill again and ag--

Mick actually has to cover his face with one large, gloved hand for a second. 

Luckily it ain’t Lisa -- it’s some kid, with skinny legs and long fingers that remind him of Lenny and a tentative, friendly smile that does anything but.

Mick looks around toward the other end of the bar to see if maybe there’s someone else the kid is here to meet, but like that’s the signal he’s been waiting for the brunet crosses the distance between them and hops up on the stool next to Mick’s.

After a beat of silence Mick growls, “What do you want, Eyebrows?”

If Mick was in a better mood, the way the kid’s expression crumples would be a real delight. That was the problem with Palmer -- _’Raymond’_ drawls the voice in his head -- he was too oblivious for Mick’s teasing nicknames to get any real reaction.

The kid clears his throat then says, real hesitant, “I was actually in here looking for someone else. You two are friends, I think, or... partners?”

Mick begrudgingly admires that the kid doesn’t quake under the weight of the stare he turns on him, just begins to smile again, slowly.

Mick has no goddamned clue who this pair of walking eyebrows is, but he clearly hasn’t heard what happened to Lenny. Mick ought to do the one thing he and Lisa’d managed to agree on -- deflect questions, obscure the situation. The Rogues could lose their footing in the surrounding neighborhoods if word spread that Captain Cold was out of the picture. Instead he takes another long pull of his beer and lets the silence stretch. Maybe the kid will take a hint.

“I’m Barry, by the way,” and the kid’s holding out a hand, not taking a hint.

Mick sighs and finally sets down his fork and shifts on his stool so he can look the kid dead-on while he tells him to fuck off, but there’s some emotion in the kid’s -- Barry’s -- eyes that Mick hadn’t noticed before. It’s some kind of anxious desperation that matches the roil in Mick’s gut.

“Look. What answer is going to make you go away? I dunno how you two knew each other, but if word ain’t gotten around to you then you can’t’ve been close.”

“I...“ Barry looks concerned now, “I’m not sure what you mean. I heard he was-- that his crew was back in town.”

Mick actually laughs at that, a little. It sounds raw. 

“Yup, crew’s back. But he ain’t. And he ain’t coming back.”

Something in Mick’s tone or his face must communicate exactly what he means because Barry’s shoulders slump and his eyes close in a look both miserable and resigned. Like this is news he’s tired of hearing.

When Barry’s eyes open again they’re watery, and there’s a hitch in his breath that makes his words choppy: “Nobody said anything. Kendra, Dr. Stein-- they just left. But I could tell-- they seemed--”

Barry’s digging his heels into his eyes, maybe trying to stop the tears from coming so he can get through a sentence, but now he’s making these little choked-off sobs and hurt noises.

What in hell is going on?

“Kid. _Eyebrows_ ,” Mick growls, trying to get a reaction, but apparently the news of Lenny’s death has pushed Barry over some edge he’s been teetering on. “Will you stop that? You’re making a damn fool of yourself -- and me!” 

That’s a lie -- nobody else in the place has so much as glanced their way, buncha lousy, self-absorbed alcoholics -- but watching the kid fall apart is making Mick’s eyes burn, and his hand shake, and he can’t risk anybody else noticing.

Except that’s not his hand. Barry’s hand, on his hand, is vibrating. Blurring in and out of visibility. It’s surprising enough that it overrides Mick’s instinct to lash out at an unsolicited touch. 

“ _Mick_ ,“ it’s punched out, desperate. The kid -- _the Flash, Jesus_ \-- is staring at Mick with these intense eyes, and suddenly Mick’s got that cornered feeling that usually ends in arson. He decides to work with the adrenaline -- surges up, wraps his hand around Barry’s wrist, and tugs the superhero toward the door.

“HEY!” The bartender bursts out from the kitchen, where he’d been chatting up the new waitress.

Mick doesn’t stop, just shouts over his shoulder, “Tab!” and pushes Barry out to the parking lot with a hand that more than spans the distance between the kid’s shoulder blades.

He shoves the Flash toward his beater, slings himself into the driver’s seat and leans over to pop the lock to the passenger-side door.

The funny thing is Mick has a plush hotel room to go back to. Gideon replicated enough money for each of the Waverider crew to have a nice little shore leave. But that ain’t where he takes the kid.

He pulls into an alley alongside the warehouse he and Lenny’d been staying in just before they left. Most of it was dingy and falling apart, but his partner had had grand plans about cleaning it up, making it a meeting space where the Rogues could gather.

Anyway, they’d at least gotten to one corner of the building. Musta been the boss’s office back when the warehouse was still a printing facility. It had carpet, a kitchenette, a bathroom. He’d built a bookshelf out of plywood and cinderblocks for Len’s books and musty old magazines ( _’It’s a collection, Mick,’ ‘Whatever, hoarder’_ ), and dragged in a plant to put next to the old tube TV they’d found there.

At least the bed’s nice; Lenny always insisted on a new mattress wherever they ended up.

_’You want fleas and bed bugs, Mick, you’re free to sleep outside.’_

Bastard. 

“Why am I here?” The kid looks around, still upset, but calmer than he’d been at the bar. He’s skinny as a polecat, with a pointy nose, a blemish forming on his jawline, and light, changeable eyes that remind Mick of the stories his Gran used to tell about Cú Chulainn.

Mick wonders how old he is, then considers demanding a show of speed to prove his identity. 

Instead he just sighs, “Because I’m not gonna talk about Snart in front of the jerks at that shithole.”

There is no couch in this room (they’d moved it to Mick’s shop at the opposite end of the warehouse), so Barry sags onto the bed. He makes a surprised noise and gives a couple test bounces. Good mattress. 

“That’s probably smart,” Barry says eventually. “Are you telling anybody that he’s gone, other than family and friends?” he asks. 

“Naw,” Mick pulls a couple of beers out of the mini-fridge, probably flat as hell, and hands one to Barry. “And neither are you if you don’t want everyone to know your secret, too.”

Barry snorts and twists the top off his bottle, “It’s almost like he’s still here.”

Mick sits next to the kid, tugs his gloves off, toes off his boots, then falls back onto the mattress. He should probably be more concerned about letting his guard down, but it’s hard to be too bothered. Ain’t they on the same side for now?

“Not much of a storyteller, but how Snart-- how it happened won’t make sense unless I tell you about the whole thing.” 

So he does, glossing over the bits he doesn’t think Lenny would want the kid to know (the reason they went along in the first place; the unplanned trip in the 70s to the Snart family home) and the bits he doesn’t want the kid to know (the details of the mutiny; what it took to turn him into Chronos).

Whenever one of them finishes a beer they get up for two more, and at some point Barry lays back onto the bed, too, head turned toward Mick. The rapt look and slack jaw are kind of flattering. Guess that’s why Len was always monologuing. 

Mick notices that the kid perks up a bit when he talks about the bar fight, then again when he recounts Len’s Russian prison break. So if he breezes over the part where he and Palmer were electrocuted, and focuses on that absurd hat Lenny was wearing, who can really blame him?

By the time he gets to the end Barry’s crying again. Not as panicky as before, but with the same sense of resignation and bitterness. Like he’s already found a way to blame himself. Mick knows the feeling.

“So that sucked,” he finishes, and the kid laughs wetly.

“Definitely.” Barry takes a deep breath like he’s going to say something, but waits ‘till Mick turns his head and looks at him. 

“You really thinks he’s dead?” Barry whispers. There’s that desperation again. “I mean... none of you were around to see exactly what happened. If the Vanishing Point is really outside of the normal rules of space and time, then--“

Mick reaches over and runs his thumb under Barry’s eye, catching and wiping away a few tears still clinging to his face. He’s careful not to scratch Barry’s cheek with any of the rough burned patches on his palm (’Turtle skin,’ Len used to call it).

“Rip Hunter is a selfish idiot, and he shouldn’t be in charge of other people,” Mick admits, “But when it comes to time he seems to know his stuff. He doesn’t think Len’s coming back.” 

Mick rubs his thumb over Barry’s cheekbone one more time, then draws his hand away.

“You two were together...?” Barry asks, as though he’s just realizing. Maybe he is. 

“Who, me and Hunter?” Mick teases.

That gets him exactly the reaction he wanted: pursed lips and an annoyed look slanted sideways through narrow eyes. The eyes aren’t quite blue enough, but it settles something inside him.

“I still can’t believe you guys were really in the Old West,” Barry changes the subject. 

Mick’s happy to elaborate, retelling what he’d told Barry before about Jonah Hex and the whole cowboys and outlaws showdown, adding in details about Len’s sharpshooting, recounting the sound punch that ugly son-of-a-gun Hex had landed on their sanctimonious captain. 

Barry has a wide grin on his face. Mick’s actually chuckling at the memory. 

“Wow,” Barry breathes, rolling onto his side and propping his head up on one hand. 

“Yeah,” Mick says, “like the Magnificent Seven.”

Barry laughs, “Right, right. I always forget, was Steve McQueen the guy in the Ironman armor or the one who can set himself on fire?”

Mick huffs as he sits up to set his (sixth?) beer bottle on the floor at the foot of the bed with all their other empties. “Fair point.”

He leans back on his hands and looks down at this kid who apparently is the city’s greatest hero. The fastest man alive. He looks about as drunk as Mick -- not at all.

“Can you get drunk, kid? Cause you’ve gone through as many as me and I’m a 225 pound meathead.”

Barry scoffs, “Meathead, yeah right. I’m growing more certain by the minute that your and Leonard’s brains-and-brawn routine was mostly an act.”

“I’m not always as dumb as I seem,” Mick allows. Then, after a beat, “Definitely not dumb enough to miss how you dodged my question.” 

He reaches out and pokes Barry in the side, just below his ribs, and then smirks when the younger man yelps and convulses a little.

“OK fine, I can’t get drunk! No more tickling; I’m sensitive.”

“What, like, you cry when you see an old person eating alone?”

“No!” Barry laughs, “Well, actually, stuff like that does get to me. I just meant that since my accident I feel things more ... intensely.”

Barry throws his arms up, one over his head, one so that his eyes are hidden in the crook of his elbow. It makes the hem of his shirt come untucked from his pants, exposing a strip of pale skin, a cluster of three freckles to the left of his navel, and a hint of dark hair low on his belly.

Mick swallows. “Intense, huh?”

He flicks his gaze up, and Barry slowly slides his arm off of his face. For a long moment their eyes are locked.

Before he can say anything the kid is up, swinging a shapely leg over Mick’s lap so that he’s straddling the bigger man, and wrapping his arms around his neck.

Barry presses their foreheads together and whispers, “Please tell me this is where we’ve been headed.” 

That look of desperation is back in the kid’s eyes.

Mick wraps one thick arm around Barry’s waist, hauls him in, nestles him right up against his chest, and slides his other hand up to grip Barry’s nape and pull him into a hungry kiss. 

Going from zero to sixty like that would’ve gotten him a shove or a startled head-butt from Lenny, who never liked being taken by surprise in anything, but Mick figures to a speedster his moves must seem plenty telegraphed.

Barry groans into the kiss, wraps his arms even tighter around Mick’s neck so that he must be practically gripping his own elbows, and a shiver zips all over his body, from his limbs to his lips.

Mick’s answering grind is basically involuntary, but he pulls back a bit from the kiss, nipping at Barry’s lower lip, letting the kid decide if he wants the pace of this to be a bit slower.

That’s a no. At not-quite-Flash speed Barry pushes the jacket off Mick’s shoulders, grabs the collar of his own shirt to pull it off over his head, then pushes Mick flat on his back so that all of the speedster’s weight is resting right where their crotches are pressed snugly together.

Mick grunts and grips Barry’s ass in both hands, hooking his thumbs below the kid’s hip bones and squeezing, kneading and pulling apart the pert cheeks as much as he can with the pants the kid’s got on.

Barry gasps and grinds down, his left hand falling to Mick’s chest to support himself, the other flying back to cover one of Mick’s hands on his ass, to encourage the rough squeeze.

Mick rolls his hips up, teases Barry’s clothed cock while still gripping and playing with his ass.

“Christ, you’re tiny,” Mick grits out, a little overwhelmed by how narrow the hero’s hips feel and look beneath his heavy hands. 

Kid must be feeling the same thing, and liking it, cause he tugs at Mick’s wrists, moves his hands up around that slender waist -- Mick’s fingers nearly touch over Barry’s spine, and there’s only an inch or two of belly between Mick’s thumbs.

Barry pants, “Roll us?” And then shouts a laugh when Mick jumps to obey, taking the opportunity while getting himself on top to also scoot them further up the bed.

They both groan as the motion causes their dicks to rub together, and each of them starts to unbutton and shimmy their way out of their pants as best they can. Mick nearly hits himself in the eye with an unclipped suspender, but soon both pairs of pants and Mick’s shirt are off and at the foot of the bed.

“Nice drawers,” Mick chuckles and snaps the kid’s waistband, which earns him a squawk and the sight of Barry’s blush spreading to his ears and neck. Cute.

“Sorry, I guess real men only wear nondescript boxers and white briefs,” the words are annoyed, but Barry’s face is attractively slack as he palms Mick’s shaft through his underwear. 

Mick lets his head fall a little, manages to pant, “They’re tight. They’ve got a pattern.” He leans in for another kiss, deep and probing, holding Barry’s chin. As he pulls back he moves his other hand to Barry’s chest so he can gently pinch and roll a nipple. “I wasn’t complaining, ya’ know.”

Barry’s groaning now, moving his hips in a slow, shameless roll against one of Mick’s thick thighs. 

“Hey, Mick?” he suddenly murmurs, “Mick?” his hands are on Mick’s shoulders, pushing a bit, trying to get the older man’s attention.

Mick’s focused on Barry’s chest, where he’s rubbing and scratching a bit at both those cute pink nipples, thinking about dipping down to take one into his mouth, but something in Barry’s tone makes him stop and look up into the kid’s eyes.

“Hey, sorry,” Mick pants, “Sorry, kid, what’s up? You OK?”

Barry’s eyes get sort of a surprised look, like he wasn’t expecting that question, and he breathes, “Yeah, dude, totally.” 

As soon as the words are out Barry closes his eyes and grits his teeth, clearly regretting having said ’dude’ in bed. 

Mick wants to be concerned (yet again) at how young the Flash is, but he can’t help but be charmed -- it reminds him of when Lenny would cover his face up with both hands during sex, embarrassed by some adorable thing he’d said or done without meaning to.

Mick draws up, sits back on his haunches and lets Barry’s legs fall over his slightly spread thighs. He pokes Barry in the side again so that the younger man will open his eyes, then gives Barry a prompting look.

“It’s just,” Barry’s looking away now, over Mick’s shoulder, pushing a hand through his hair, “We can’t use a condom.”

When he finally meets Mick’s eyes he looks worried, like Mick’s about to call it off. 

“I mean we could use one, it just wouldn’t really work. You probably notice I get these--”

“Boner shakes?” Mick deadpans.

Barry’s whole body arches with laughter, and Mick quick gets one hand on the small of Barry’s back to hold the pliant body bowed a little so that he can satisfy his urge to lean down and gently bite at one of the kid’s flushed nipples. 

Once Barry calms down enough to talk he starts up a rambling explanation about vibrations he sometimes can’t control, and ’micro-tears’ in condoms, and how his ex-girlfriend was on birth control so it was all OK after all. 

Mick has to interrupt to ask, “Are you healthy?”

“Of course! Even before the super-healing I was clean and safe, and technically I’ve only been with the one person since my accident.”

On the one hand it’s a bit surprising, but on the other Mick can tell Barry has the same weird self-confidence issue as Lenny where they can’t believe anybody would be interested in them (even though they’re both incredibly good at what they do and great to look at). Lenny’s insecurities stemmed from his old man and his childhood. Mick wonders if he’ll ever find out where Barry’s come from. 

He pats Barry once on the stomach and says, “Rip made us all get checked out by Gideon at the end of every mission, so I’m good, too.“ Before he can explain the ship’s A.I. Barry’s face lights up and he nods real eager, like he’s already familiar with it. Sure, whatever. 

Barry sits up as best he can, pressing sucking little kisses to Mick’s chin, the corner of his mouth, back along his jaw. When he gets to Mick’s ear he whispers, bold as brass, “You should fuck me now.”

Mick chuckles and runs his hands real light down Barry’s back ‘till he feels goosebumps rise and the kid start shivering.

“Dunno, kid. If you only slept with one person, one _woman_ , since becoming the Flash, I’m not sure how comfortable that’s going to be for you.” 

Barry pulls back and gives him a look like _’Oh you think you’re hot stuff?’_ , then curls both hands in Mick’s waistband and tugs his underwear down, freeing his straining erection, which slaps wetly against Barry’s abdomen. 

At first Barry looks a little awestruck, then he lets out an annoyed huff and says, “Ok, fine. So we’ll ease into it.”

Mick sits up a little (Barry yelps and clings to Mick’s shoulder and head to keep from falling) so he can push his drawers down his thighs, then reach behind and yank them off mostly all the way. They may or may not be caught on one ankle, but he can’t be bothered about that when the Flash’s flushed chest and hard nipples are right at eye level, and one of the hero’s hands is wrapping around Mick’s aching cock.

Barry shoots Mick a look from under hooded eyes and starts up a slow hand job, one loose fist stroking up and down, rubbing his foreskin over his shaft, drawing up beads of precome that spill over onto Barry’s hand whenever he reaches the head, slicking the next movement down.

Even for a man the kid’s chest is pretty spare -- he’s got those lean, strong running muscles after all, no need for extra bulk up top. Still Mick can’t help putting his face right over Barry’s sternum, rubbing a bit so that his stubble pinks up the skin. He lavishes broad licks and sharp nips and tugs on Barry’s nipples, noting with interest how the pink nubs turn red, remembering how Len’s flat, brown nipples would look almost purple by the time he was done with them. 

He takes Barry’s right nipple into his mouth and gives an aggressive suck, and suddenly Barry’s clutching Mick’s head to his chest, rutting frantically against Mick’s cock and abs, and coming in his underwear with an, “Ah! Mick!” 

_Goddamn_. 

“OK, seriously kid, _how old are you_? That was stupid sexy, but am I gonna get in trouble for this?”

Barry’s rubbing his hands all over Mick’s head and humming contentedly, seemingly ignoring Mick in favor of sinking into a post-orgasm haze, occasionally jerking a bit or giving one of those full-body shivers that buzzes Mick’s skin like he stuck his finger in a light socket. Except--

“Are you still hard?”

“Mmmm, yep. I can come again. And it’s not because I’m young. I’m in my ... mid-twenties.”

“Oh, OK,” Mick huffs a laugh, “Introduce yourself with your real name to one of your enemies at a dive bar, then get all cagey about personal details once the pants are off.”

Barry grins and throws his head back with a gasp when Mick snakes a hand down to grip him through his underwear.

“Too sensitive?” Mick asks.

“Yes,” Barry nods (well, lolls), “But don’t stop. It’s good, sometimes too much is good.”

Mick splays his hand low on Barry’s belly, dips his thumb under his waistband and rubs back and forth over Barry’s glans, loving the hurt noises, the way the kid’s body jerks and writhes instinctively to escape the touch.

“Nnn, god, I want that thumb inside of me,” Barry pants.

Mick nods toward the bookshelf, and faster than he can register the kid is there and back, lying back on the bed, lube in-hand, underpants gone. “Damn that’s a neat trick,” Mick growls, and leans forward to loom over Barry, seal their mouths together in a thrusting, dirty kiss, and draw those superpowered legs up to wrap around his waist. 

He expects Barry to hand the lube over, but the kid slicks his own fingers then slides his hand down, past his straining erection -- first to press teasingly up underneath his balls, then lower to circle his hole. 

“I’m gonna start it off,” Barry says, “just what I usually do, what I’m used to. Then maybe you can take over from there?”

Mick nods dumbly, staring at where Barry is slowly pushing two slightly curled fingers into himself, not really thrusting or drawing them out, just flexing, spreading, making little undulating movements. Mick is transfixed, watching how Barry’s knuckles work -- how the tendons on the back of his hand strain, and stand out, then relax -- and thinking about Len’s hands taking apart his gun, digging inside of a circuit breaker, curling conspiratorially around Mick’s biceps as he draws him close--

Mick covers his face with one hand and lets out a sob. It’s been so long since he’s done anything like crying, and even without waterworks the noise he makes is strangled and embarrassing. He only allows himself the one, then draws in a shuddering breath and buries (hides) his face in Barry’s neck.

Barry tries to wrap his arms around Mick as best he can given his semi-squashed position, and Mick worries that the kid is going to try to have a heart-to-heart or something. In the past people who’ve urged Mick to ‘let it all out’ haven’t generally appreciated the results.

“We can stop if you want,” Barry says, without a trace of disappointment or judgment (or pity, thank god) in his voice. Barry’s hands slide soothingly up and down over Mick’s lats. 

Mick shakes his head, noses a bit at Barry’s adam’s apple, then leans up so Barry can breathe a bit easier. He rests his weight on his forearms and drops a kiss on that pretty red mouth. “I’m fine if you still are,” he says, “I just have to get used to the fact that things are going to remind me of him.”

“That’s true...” Barry replies, “but it’s still fresh. It would be normal to feel like this was wrong -- like it was cheating.”

 _That_ makes Mick smirk a little. “Even if he was still here it wouldn’t be cheating. He and I had a pretty flexible understanding.”

Barry looks confused, then, “ _OH_. For real?”

“Yep. In fact, after you helped him with Lewis I thought you two might be fucking around,” Mick waggles his eyebrows suggestively, happy for the chance to distract Barry from his sudden display of emotion. “He liked you, you know.”

“What?! He did not,” Barry struggles to keep a smile from breaking through his stern look.

“He did,” Mick replies, “he thought you were cute, and cheeky, and he liked that you played his game without letting him win. By Christmas I was sure you two were together,” Mick lets his voice get gravelly, trails one hand up Barry’s thigh, and slides his thumb inside Barry’s slightly stretched, still slick hole. Barry vibrates and clenches around the thumb, which is thick and blunt and slightly bent from the time 13-year-old Mick had punched a wall with it clenched inside of his fist.

“What-- ngh, yeah-- what made you think he and I--?” The kid grits out.

Mick shrugs a bit and continues pumping his thumb. It’s as broad as the two fingers Barry had in himself, but isn’t reaching as deep inside, which must be driving the kid up a wall.

“Snart never forgot who he owed a favor, or who owed him one. So the fact that he ditched the circus clown and Mardon struck me as odd.” Mick draws his thumb out completely, lubes three fingers, then rubs them against Barry’s rim and shoots him a glance.

“Yeah, do it,” Barry nods, throwing his head back, the long column of his neck splotched and straining as Mick slowly, but relentlessly, works all three fingers in as deep as they’ll go. 

“Thing is,” Mick continues, “Snart was always fuckin’ things up with people who weren’t me. He’d say the wrong thing, make it clear he was prioritizing something else over them, and then boom, it was over. Once I found out Mardon’s plan involved wrecking you, I thought I had Snart’s motives figured. Because unlike all those other side pieces, he actually gave a shit about you.” 

Barry is rolling his hips now, meeting Mick’s fingers, griping at the sheets by his hips and moaning deliciously whenever Mick bumps a digit against his prostate. 

“I used to think about you two together, how it would look. Whether Lenny would want to take the lead, or let you give it to him.”

The talk must be working Barry over because he rears up, grips Mick’s wrist and draws his fingers out, then uses his heels, which are dug into the small of Mick’s back, to urge him forward. 

“Pushy,” Mick taunts.

“Trust me, I’m going to annoy you with follow-up questions later,” Barry rasps, “but right now you need to fuck me.”

Mick doesn’t need to be asked twice, just slicks his cock, pumps it a couple of times, then pushes into Barry nice and easy. Even with the prep it’s tight, so Mick unwraps Barry’s legs from his waist and pushes them back a bit toward the kid’s shoulders with his hands braced on the undersides of those lean thighs.

“Jesus, Mick!” Barry cries out as the new position opens him up wider, lets Mick slide in deeper until he’s pressed flush to Barry’s ass. Barry’s clenching convulsively, groaning, and Mick wonders if he’s going to come again, but eventually he calms, looks up at Mick dreamily and murmurs, “You’re thick. So big inside me.”

“You like that?” Mick asks, starting to slowly circle his hips, draw out just a bit, then rock back into Barry’s velvety heat. “You like feeling small?”

“Mmmm,” Barry nods, clearly beyond shame, “You can crush me a little, Heat Wave. Take me however you like.” 

And damn if that doesn’t get Mick going. He starts to thrust in earnest, being sure to lean more than he would usually against Barry’s thighs. There are tremors shooting all over the kid’s body that Mick can feel in his balls, his gut, his chest. He can’t get what happened at the Vanishing Point out of his head, can’t help Lisa grieve, but he can give Barry what he needs -- a rough plowing, a distraction, a sore body and some dirty memories.

“Mick! Harder, I can take--“ Mick pulls out, flips Barry onto his stomach and is about to pull him up to his knees, but Barry just buries his face in the pillow and arches his back, uses his hands to hold his own cheeks apart. Exposing himself to Mick, trusting that Mick will take care of him. 

Mick thrusts back in, pulls Barry’s hips back hard to meet him, and with a strangled shout Barry’s coming against his stomach and the bedspread. Mick keeps going -- alternating rough pumps of his hips with dirty grinds -- but he remembers what Barry’d said earlier about liking when things got to be too much. So he grips the nape of Barry’s neck with one big hand to give the kid a sense of his strength, and snakes the other around Barry’s trim little waist to rub and tug mercilessly at his softening dick.

“NNG-- Please!” Barry bucks and vibrates, and the way he grips tight around Mick’s cock causes the older man to finally come, shooting inside Barry and letting out a shuddering groan.

Barry makes a desperate, anguished noise of his own as he comes a third time, rutting into Mick’s fist. 

Mick withdraws slowly and rolls Barry up onto his side, careful not to stimulate the kid past the point of pleasurable pain and into actual discomfort. Barry seems more than happy to let himself be manhandled, even snuggles a bit into the pillow and lets his eyes droop.

It’s after Mick has wiped them both down, slumped back next to Barry and drawn the comforter half over them that he finally lets himself consider whether what just happened was a good idea. He can’t bring himself to regret much -- maybe just that he brought the Flash back to the Rogues’ lair.

Barry reaches back to tug Mick’s arm around his waist, already dozing. That’s one definite difference from Len, who didn’t like to cuddle after sex, but was all soft kisses and small smiles. Mick used to joke that 85% of the conversations he’d ever had with Len had happened immediately after sex. 

Mick’s nearly asleep when he remembers that he doesn’t actually have a tab at Saints.


End file.
